


The Beauty of Broken Things

by Nightlark100



Category: Charlie's Angels (2019)
Genre: Abduction, Obsession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Protectiveness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28085481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightlark100/pseuds/Nightlark100
Summary: When you make a deal with the devil, there is always a price. And he always comes to collect
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	The Beauty of Broken Things

The rain beat against the window with a cold ferocity. The sky was a muted grey, lit up intermittently by the strings of flashing Christmas lights that adorned the frame. The window was obnoxiously large, baring the room beyond to the world and the apartments opposite. The room was dark except for the faint glow of a discarded laptop and the ever present flashing lights which stained the environment in alternating shades of red and green.

A bed was placed by the window, the covers in disarray around a figure stretched out on top. A Christmas tree stood proudly across from it, crumpled shapes scattered around it in uneven piles. Abstract patterns swirled on the cream wallpaper, the illumination of the laptop revealing them to be shades of ruby and scarlet that danced randomly across the walls.

Beside the tree, a huddled form leaned against the wall. Their arms were striped like a candy cane, pale skin between long dark lines. A dark blossom at her feet contrasted with the paler outer ring of the carpet, steadily disappearing as the bloom grew.

Across the strip of concrete that separated the apartment blocks, a man stood beneath an alcove. He was well dressed, at odds with the harsh surroundings, in a buttoned up waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. Despite the weather, he was without a coat and seemed oblivious to the biting rain as he stood watching the window.

He wasn’t sure what had drawn his attention, but as he watched his interest grew. His sharp eyes picked up on every tiny detail that was laid out before him.

Pale waxy skin tinted green.

Light reflecting off glassy eyes.

Cloth turned red beneath the decorations with harsh stains turned nearly black in contrast.

It was messy and decidedly amateurish but he couldn’t help appreciating the cruel passion of the work and the oblivious nature of those in the apartments around it. It reminded him of when he had first started out, like a nervous teenager fumbling in the dark with the clasp of a bra those first kills had been… less than elegant.

Movement drew his attention as the artist of the scene emerged from the bathroom and approached the girl beneath the tree. She had suffered already but had been kept alive far longer than the woman discarded on the bed.

She was dragged to her feet and thrown against the window. Like a cat with a mouse, this predator wanted to toy with his prey. He pressed her cheek against the glass and for a moment, her eyes met those of the silent observer. Perhaps it was his imagination but he thought he heard her call out, begging for his help.

Not that such pleas, real or imagined, typically had much impact. Compassion was not a commodity that men in his career attributed much value to.

Still, he found himself leaving his vantage point and moving with swift purpose, head bowed against the rain, to the block of flats. Letting himself in, he did a quick calculation of the windows he’d observed and mentally pinpointed the right location.

His pace was fast as he ascended the stairs, yet there was an unhurried quality to it. After all, why should he rush? He had no stake in what was happening, he’d simply been in the right place at the right time with nothing else to occupy him.

The door to the apartment was ever so slightly ajar, barely noticeable to the casual passerby. He paused, retrieving his gun from its holster and double checking the silencer. Faint whimpers came from beyond the door, quiet enough that they could be shrugged off as anything but what they actually were. When faced with horror, many minds would conjure whatever explanation they could, no matter how implausible.

With practiced predatory grace, he let himself into the apartment. He prowled across the empty stretch of floor to the doorway. Beyond he could see the carnage still lit garishly by Christmas lights. He could hear the man’s voice, making threats to the girl and he rolled his eyes. Talk was cheap.

The girl was in bad shape but still conscious enough that she registered his presence, her absent gaze sweeping over him unnoticed by her tormentor.

A deliberate clearing of the throat ended the tableau.

The man turned and there was a split second of panic that took control of his features. It didn’t last long as misplaced confidence quickly replaced it, but it was that moment that the observer relished. Anyone could invoke fear with words. But he had perfected his craft so that his mere presence was enough to draw out that delicious terror.

One quick movement as the man jerked to his feet and the muffled sound of the gun, and it was over. The observer had barely twitched.

Now he crossed to the girl, bleeding heavily on the rug. He ignored the woman on the bed, nothing short of divine intervention would bring her back. As he knelt beside the bleeding girl, one stained hand reached out to him, searching for… comfort, help, he didn’t know. He ran a dispassionate eye over her, assessing her injuries. Bad, yes, but survivable. Of course, by the time an ambulance got there it would be too late. She was already losing focus, her body no doubt begging to shut down and relieve the pain.

“Look at me,” he said quietly. She didn’t respond. He gripped her chin between two fingers, forcing her head in his direction. “Look. At. Me.”

Her brow furrowed as she forced her eyes to concentrate on his face.

“If I leave now, you will die,” he told her. There was no emotion to the words, he could easily have been talking about the weather. “Do you want to live?”

“Please…” she rasped.

“What is it worth to you?” Everything for a price after all. Over the years he’d heard almost every variation, been offered favours, money, sex, for the chance of a few more moments of meagre existence.

“I don’t want to die alone,” she whispered.

Maybe it was pity. Maybe he was just in a forgiving mood. It could have been any number of reasons. Whatever it was, had anyone been paying attention to that block of flats, they would have seen a well dressed man slip out through a side door shortly before an ambulance arrived, acting on an anonymous tip. In flat 243, two bodies were found – a woman dead from multiple stab wounds, and a man with a single gunshot to the forehead. Nearby was the girl, unconscious but alive, her injuries tended to with skilled improvisation. The only sign of the man's presence was a lingering memory tinged with darkness.


End file.
